


So This Is Christmas

by Mer



Category: Midsomer Murders - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Found Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:41:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28588173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mer/pseuds/Mer
Summary: 'Twas two nights before Christmas when an unexpected visitor showed up on John and Sarah Barnaby's doorstep.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first Midsomer Murders post. It's not the first story I'd intended to post, but given that there are only minutes left in the Christmas season (it's still Twelfth Night in my time zone), I had to act now or hold my peace/piece for another year. And while I am perfectly capable of revising for 11.5 months, it's time to move on! 
> 
> That said, I only finished the final chapter today, so my stretch goal is to have all four parts posted within the next week or so.
> 
> All errors and inconsistencies are my own. Midsomer Murders, the Barnabys, and Ben are not.

‘Twas two nights before Christmas and all was quiet in Causton. Even the murderous citizens of Midsomer county were behaving themselves, so Detective Chief Inspector John Barnaby had felt comfortable letting his sergeant, Jamie Winter, visit family for the holidays.

His Christmas shopping done – and an obscene amount of presents for his daughter stored at the station for Santa to deliver - John was looking forward to an uneventful Christmas spent with just his nearest and dearest. 

He was dividing his attention between the _Sunday Times_ crossword and _Escape to the Chateau_ , (mostly the latter), when he noticed his wife Sarah staring out the window. 

“Do you have a stalker?” she asked. 

“Not that I’m aware of,” John replied, following her gaze. A black hatchback was parked by the driveway. Nothing unusual about that, nothing to cause alarm. “Probably someone visiting the neighbours.”

“The driver is still in the car and the engine is on,” Sarah retorted. “They’ve been sitting there for nearly half an hour.”

“I’m sure I’ve sat in the car waiting for you to leave a party for more than half an hour.” But he stood up and peered out the window. He could see a figure in the driver’s seat, but couldn’t make out the features. “Maybe they’re lost. Google Maps is as mystified by Midsomer as I am. I’ll see if they need help.”

He opened the front door and let Paddy out with him. A small attack dog was better than none. But Paddy started spinning with excitement, as soon as he got within scent of the car. John’s senses were less acute, and he was nearly at the car before he recognized the occupant. Frowning, he rapped on the window.

Ben Jones, his former sergeant, now an inspector in Brighton, looked up and flinched, but rolled down the window.

“Staking out the neighbourhood?” John asked. Even in the dim light reflecting off the dashboard, Jones looked terrible. Dark semi-circles smudged under his eyes, beard untrimmed, lank hair hanging in his eyes. John tried to remember the last time they’d talked. Jones had mentioned an undercover operation, apologized for not being able to come to Betty’s reception class concert. That had been two weeks ago. Jones looked like he hadn’t slept since then.

Jones swallowed and looked down at his hands, but didn’t say anything.

“Are you all right?” John tried again, but Jones just shrugged and refused to look at him.

John leaned in, turned off the engine and took the keys. “Come on,” he said. “Sarah’s getting worried.” Sarah was in fact standing at the front door, looking more curious than concerned, but it was enough to get Jones out of the car.

When she realized who it was, however, she broke into a delighted smile, which froze when she saw his face. Without a word, she stepped forward and pulled Jones into a hug. He dropped his head on her shoulder and seemed to crumble into her embrace. 

John reached out and put his hand on Jones’s back, startled to discover that he was trembling. He looked at Sarah, who looked back at him with an expression of worry and fear, and tightened her arms.

“It’s so good to see you, Ben,” she murmured, not pushing or asking anything, just giving him shelter. They stood in a silent tableau, even Paddy quietly sitting and looking up at Jones, until John realized that one of the reasons Jones was likely trembling was because he only had a thin shirt on. 

“Come on,” he said again. “It’s December, for god’s sake. Let’s get you inside before you freeze to death.”

Jones took a deep, shuddering breath, but straightened up and nodded. Sarah shifted her arm to his waist and led him into the house. 

Once inside, he seemed to come to himself. “I’m sorry,” he said, staring at the floor. “I started driving and I just ended up here.”

It was a two-hour drive from Brighton at the best of times, a long way to go on a whim. “You know you’re welcome any time, Ben,” Sarah said, seeming reluctant to let go of him.

“You must be tired,” John said, thinking that was an understatement. In full light, Jones looked even worse, almost grey with exhaustion. “When was the last time you ate?”

Jones shrugged. “Not sure. This morning?”

“I’ll heat up some leftovers,” Sarah said and hurried into the kitchen. 

John waited until she was out of earshot. “What happened? Are you still undercover?”

Jones shook his head. “It’s over,” he said. “It’s all over.” He scrubbed his face with his hands, and John could see that his knuckles were bruised and raw.

“Why don’t you take a shower while Sarah gets the food ready. You’ll feel better. I think you left a t-shirt behind last visit, and I can lend you some joggers.”

“Are you saying that I smell?” Jones asked with a ghost of a smile.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” John replied, but he couldn’t quite manage to smile back. He looked closer. “There’s blood on your shirt,” he added in alarm. 

Jones looked down. “It’s not mine.” He looked like he was about to say something more, but then clenched his fists and hurried upstairs. 

John waited until he could hear the shower running, then grabbed his mobile off the hall stand. He found the number for Brighton CID’s division commander and dialed. 

The call picked up on the second ring. “John. I was going to call you when I got a chance. Have you developed psychic powers now or have you cultivated new sources in my division?” Detective Chief Superintendent Keith Hicks sounded harried, but not concerned, which reassured John slightly. 

“Neither. I’m checking my source right now to find out what happened to Ben Jones.”

“And why would you be asking that?” Now Hicks sounded suspicious. “Look, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but there’s no need to worry, he’s fine.”

“Is he?” John replied evenly. “Because he drove two hours just to sit in his car outside our house. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. There’s blood on his shirt, and he’s clearly been in a fight. I’ve sent him off to get cleaned up, and Sarah will feed him up, but I need to know what I’m dealing with here.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line and then Hicks exhaled heavily. “There was a raid this morning. Drugs. Jones was on the inside. He got word to us that there was a shipment coming in, a big one.”

“Was his cover blown?”

“No. He was supposed to call in and find a way to get out before the raid went down, but the local dealers insisted he be at the exchange. And it’s a good thing he was, because he was able to get word that they had guns.”

Which meant armed response and Ben Jones caught in the middle of a firefight. John’s stomach twisted. “Casualties?” he asked, dreading the answer. Jones was too rattled for things to have gone well. 

“One dead drug dealer, three more injured. Two police officers shot. Both expected to make a full recovery. Another stabbed. Could have been worse if Jones hadn’t been there to intervene.”

That explained the knuckles. Trust Jones to bring his fists to a knife fight. He would have to check that Jones wasn’t downplaying any other injuries when he brought him a change of clothes. “He’s always had a habit of diving into danger,” he said. “But that doesn’t explain the state he’s in.”

Hicks paused, then cleared his throat. “The officer who was stabbed was one of his constables. He shouldn’t have been there, but when they found out Jones was still inside, his team insisted on going in so he wouldn’t get hit by friendly fire.”

John had met Jones’s team the last time he was in Brighton, two constables and a sergeant, who treated their inspector with a mixture of affection, exasperation, and fierce loyalty. “Which one?” 

“Debenham.”

Michael Debenham was the younger of the constables, only a few years out of university and just six months in CID. He’d reminded John of a cocker spaniel, following Jones around with exhausting enthusiasm. “Is he going to be alright?”

“Treated and already released. Turned out to be more blood than damage, thank god, but the team was pretty shaken.”

“And Jones is blaming himself.” John didn’t need Hicks’s hummed confirmation. 

“He stayed with Debenham at the hospital until he was released and then spent most of the day in meetings and interviews wrapping things up. I sent him home around six. Should I be concerned about where he thinks that is?”

“Midsomer will always be his home,” John retorted. “And we’ll always be here if he needs us.”

Another long pause. “Good,” Hicks said decisively. “This was big, John. Ten kilos off the street, a supply chain broken. Whatever else happened, lives were saved.”

“I’ll make sure he remembers that,” John promised. “Let me know if there are any developments.”

“Just look after him and then send him back. He can have until the 27th.”

John disconnected and looked upstairs thoughtfully. It was too soon for Jones to be gunning for a promotion, and he had no plans to step up a grade for more paperwork and less legwork anyway. But in a few years, if he managed things right, he could bring Jones back where he belonged. 

He heard the shower shut off, so hurried upstairs to find the change of clothes. The t-shirt was in the spare room dresser, as well as fresh socks and pants. There was also a jumper and a pair of trousers that John thought had been given away months before. He wondered if he should be concerned that his wife was nesting for his former sergeant, then decided he was glad. 

He knocked on the bathroom door. “There’s a change of clothes in the bedroom. Come downstairs whenever you’re ready.”

Sarah looked up from stirring some soup on the stove when he came into the kitchen. “What did Keith Hicks say?”

John didn’t bother trying to deny that he’d called Jones’s commander. “There was a raid. Jones was involved. Did you hear anything on the news?”

Sarah frowned. “I heard something on the radio about a drug bust in Brighton, but I didn’t think anything of it. Ben’s in Major Crimes, not Drugs.”

“If it was as big as Hicks says, it would have been a multi-department operation. Ben was on the inside. It’s why he missed Betty’s concert.”

“I thought you said he was on duty.”

“He was, just not in the station. I didn’t want to worry you.” John worried enough for both of them and, it seemed, for good reason. 

“Well, I’m worried now. I thought he wasn’t going undercover anymore.”

John had thought so too. Jones had built a good investigative team, and it seemed odd to pull him away when CID was chronically understaffed, but illegal drugs were a contributing factor to most major crimes in the area, so resources were often shared. And John knew better than most what a good resource Jones could be.

“He’s safe, and he’s here, and anything else is a worry for another day.”

“How long can he stay?” she asked. “At least through Christmas, surely.”

John hesitated. Sarah and Betty would love nothing better than to have Jones stay, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to give up his quiet family Christmas. 

Sarah read his expression. “This is his first Christmas without his gran, John,” she chided in a low voice. “And Kate is in Boston on sabbatical. We’re the closest thing he has to family.”

Of course Jones was family: family by choice and design, like Sarah and Betty and Paddy, even if Kam and Winter had manipulated him about that. He liked to pretend that Sarah had manipulated him into choosing Jones as Betty’s godfather as well, but even Betty knew it was a pretense. 

“December 27. But I’m making plans for a longer-term solution.”

“Am I going to be consulted on those plans?”

John cursed the lack of creaky floorboards in the house. Somehow Jones had managed to sneak into the kitchen without them noticing. He looked a bit more human after the shower. His hair was toweled dry and finger combed, but he looked awake and alert. 

“Still formulating, Jones. But in the short-term, Sarah and I would be very happy if you could stay for Christmas. And Betty would be over the moon.”

Jones looked startled. “What day is it?” he asked.

“December 23rd.” John frowned. “How long have you been under?”

“Early November.” Jones replied. “I lost track. I didn’t realize…” His voice trailed off, the tips of his ears growing red. “I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean to interrupt your holidays.” He stared down at his socked feet, as if wishing shoes would magically appear on them.

“It’s the best interruption we could have asked for,” Sarah said firmly. “Now sit down. I heated up some soup and made you a sandwich. If you’re good, you can have Christmas cookies for dessert.”

Jones’s stomach rumbled, betraying him, and he sat at the kitchen table without further protest. 

John rooted in the fridge and pulled out a growler of ale. He poured three glasses, and left the growler on the counter. He had a feeling this was going to be a multi-glass conversation. He waited, though, until Jones had finished half the sandwich. 

“What happened?” he asked finally.

“What did DCS Hicks tell you?” Jones countered. “Don’t pretend you didn’t call him the second I was out of earshot.”

John mused that he was not nearly as circumspect as he would like. He wondered if Jones knew exactly how often he’d called Keith Hicks to check up on him. He hoped not. “Drugs bust. Ten kilos off the street. That’s bigger than anything during my days.”

Jones nodded. “A kilo of it was fentanyl,” he said. “It’s been cropping up in the northeast since 2016, but now it’s reached Brighton in a big way. Half a dozen ODs in the last two months. Mostly street kids, but the last one was the teenage son of a councillor, so someone finally decided to take notice.”

“We haven’t seen it here yet,” John said. He’d read the reports though. An opioid 100 times more powerful than morphine. Gave heroin a killer kick, literally.

“I knew one of the kids,” Jones continued. “Met him at an outreach centre. He was doing really well. Off heroin, got himself an apprenticeship. But it’s not just heroin they’re cutting any more. Cocaine. Meth. I was already looking for the source, so they brought me on the task force.”

“That’s the operation you told me about?”

Jones nodded. “We got a break. One of the other kids at the centre got scared, brought me some meth he bought off the same dealer. Tests confirmed it was cut with fentanyl. Would have killed him if he’d taken it.”

“Seems like a poor business model - killing your customers.”

Jones grimaced. “I don’t think they’re looking at long-term customer retention. Anyway, it scared the kid enough that he was willing to help us work our way up the supply chain. The drug squad set me up as a new dealer in town looking to be part of the bigger picture. It took a few weeks, but eventually I got an intro to the bigwigs.” He managed a tight grin. “It turns out that years of managing chief inspectors is a transferable skill in the crime world.”

“Cheeky bugger,” John scolded, but Jones had always made sure he had what he needed, oftentimes before he even knew he needed it. “I’m glad you choose to use your powers for good.”

“I don’t know about that,” Jones muttered. “Though at least it meant that I was in a position to learn about a shipment coming in from the continent. I got word to the task force, but I couldn’t disappear or it would have been suspicious.”

“And you were able to warn them that they were armed,” John added. “That saved lives.”

Jones glanced at him. “Then you know what happened.”

“It’s not your fault Debenham was hurt. DCS Hicks said it would have been worse if you hadn’t been there.”

“ _He_ shouldn’t have been there,” Jones retorted. “None of them should have.”

“And if the roles were reversed? Would you have stayed out if Debenham, or Warnock, or Macavee was the one inside?” He held Jones’s gaze. “I seem to recall you never had any hesitation in being the first through the door.”

“That’s different. I’ve been trained. I doubt Debs has even held a gun outside the range.” He covered his face with his hands. “I had to drive him to his parents’ place tonight. I could easily have been going there for a much worse reason.”

John glanced at Sarah, who leaned over and pulled Jones into a hug.

“But he’s safe with the ones who love him, and so are you,” she said, and stroked his hair as he cried quietly onto her shoulder.

“Sorry,” he said, sitting up and wiping his eyes. “That’s embarrassing.”

John didn’t say anything, his own throat tight with emotion, but topped up Jones’s beer.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ben,” Sarah replied. “You wouldn’t believe the state John was in when Grady Felton tried to kill you. Or this summer when Jamie was nearly shot with a crossbow.”

“Yes, thank you for sharing all my secrets,” John protested, though he hoped Jones already knew. Before he could say anything else, his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, but it was a Brighton exchange, so he excused himself to take the call.

“Barnaby.”

“I’m sorry to bother you, Chief Inspector Barnaby,” a female voice replied. “It’s Detective Sergeant Elissa Warnock. I don’t know if you remember me, but I work with DI Jones.”

John remembered her very well. She had transferred to CID just before he transferred to Midsomer, though their paths had only crossed infrequently. But he’d been glad when Jones picked her as his sergeant, as she was smart and supremely efficient, and a tempering force on Jones’s more reckless instincts. “Of course. What can I do for you, Sergeant Warnock?”

“DCS Hicks said Inspector Jones was with you. I just wanted to make sure he was okay. He’s not answering his phone and Debs said the Inspector didn’t seem himself when he dropped him off.”

But Jones hadn’t been himself for more than a month. “He’ll be fine,” he reassured his former sergeant’s sergeant. “I’ll let you talk to him yourself. Jones,” he called out, walking back into the kitchen. “You need to charge your phone.”

Jones blinked, spoon stilled halfway to his mouth, his expression what John fondly thought of as his village idiot look. The beard masked it a bit, but it was still there to see for those who knew it well. 

“Someone has been trying to call you,” he said, handing the phone to Jones. 

“Jones speaking,” Jones said cautiously, then smiled. “Sorry, Lis, I left my phone in the car.” He paused and listened, his expression turning abashed. 

It was John’s favourite thing about Ben Jones, watching the endless play of emotions animate his face. It was even more entertaining now, when he didn’t have to worry about his sergeant giving away his entire thought process to a suspect.

“No, I’m okay. I just kind of went on autopilot and ended up here. No, I know you could have, but it had to be me.” He turned away and lowered his voice. “I didn’t realize it was Christmas Eve tomorrow. Are you still going to Ed’s parents? Can you...?” His shoulders relaxed and a smile broke across his face. “I can meet you so you don’t have to detour… No, of course not… I’ll see you then… Lis? Thank you.” He listened again and ducked his head. “Yeah, me too.” 

He passed the phone back to John. “She wants to talk to you again. I’ll go get my phone.”

John waited until he was out of the room. “Thank you for looking out for him.”

Warnock took a sharp breath. “It was only supposed to be me going in, but the lads wouldn’t let me leave them behind. He left me in charge of the team, and I let him down.”

“You most certainly did not.” He was sure Jones would tell her the same thing once he’d had a good night’s sleep and shaken off the day’s trauma. “The only person he’s blaming is himself. He feels terrible about Debenham.”

Warnock snorted. “Are you kidding? Debs is thrilled with every stitch he got. He already idolizes the boss, but having him swoop in to save his life? Now he’s going to be unbearable.”

“That won’t last past the next time Jones calls him in when he’s on a date.” But John had his own experiences of Jones swooping in to save his life, and he still hadn’t gotten over it. He saw Sarah frantically gesture at him and knew she’d interpreted the hushed conversation the same way he had. “Are you visiting family for Christmas?” he asked, just to confirm.

“I’m heading to the in-laws in Oxford tomorrow.”

“Well, if you don’t mind the detour, I hope you can break up your journey with some festive cheer at ours. I believe you have the address.”

He heard Warnock laugh. “Ben’s right. Nothing gets past you. I’m sure we can stop for a quick visit.”

“Excellent. Happy holidays, Sergeant Warnock.”

“Happy holidays, Chief Inspector Barnaby.”

John hung up, pleased with himself for circumventing Jones’s plans, and more than a little chuffed that Jones talked about him to his team. His pleasure faded after a few minutes when he realized Jones hadn’t returned yet. Suddenly convinced that Jones had taken the opportunity to slip away out of embarrassment or propriety, he stood up and hurried to the door. 

But Jones was coming inside as he opened it, his phone in one hand and a kit bag in the other. “Forgot this was in the boot,” he said with a grin. “Don’t have as much need for a change of clothes now that I have 20-something constables to do the dirty work.” He noticed the expression on John’s face. “What? Did you think I did a runner? I just had to return a couple of calls.”

He was shivering, though, and John had to suppress the urge to shake some sense into him. “Well get inside. You’ll catch your death.”

“You don’t catch a cold from the cold,” Jones protested.

“No, but your immune system is weakened from lack of sleep, poor diet, stress. What’s so funny?” he demanded, when Jones snickered. 

“That sounds like the entire time I worked for you,” Jones replied. “Fatherhood has made you soft. I hear you even gave Winter the holidays off.”

“I couldn’t bear the whining about missing his parents. Besides, you’re here, and you have a change of clothes, so I have someone to do the dirty work if a Midsomer citizen snaps over the Christmas pudding.”

“Of course,” Jones said, the corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement. “Just like old times.” He put his hand on John’s shoulder. “Thank you for having me.”

“It’s my pleasure,” John replied, and realized that he absolutely meant it.


	2. Chapter 2

Ben woke to the sound of a door opening. Instinctively, he tensed, fight or flight reaction coursing adrenaline through him. But then reality kicked in. He was in John and Sarah’s spare room, it was Christmas Eve morning, and the most danger he faced was being pounced on by a small child, judging by the light patter of bare feet on the hardwood floor. He kept his eyes closed, but couldn’t stop a smile from turning up the corners of his mouth.

He felt something drop on the bed, and suddenly a warm tongue was licking the side of his face. He opened his eyes to see Paddy staring down at him, then turned his head to find Betty watching expectantly at the bedside.

“Mummy said not to wake you,” Betty said. “But she didn’t say Paddy couldn’t wake you. You’ve been sleeping forever, Unca Ben. It’s nearly nine.”

Ben glanced at his watch. It was 8:13, which was later than he normally slept, but stretching the definition of nearly nine. Still, given that Betty was usually wide awake before seven, she’d shown admirable restraint. He sat up, glad that he’d worn a t-shirt and joggers to bed. “Good morning, Betty Bee. You’re buzzing about early.”

She giggled and climbed onto the bed, kneeling next to him. “Bzzz,” she said, poking him on the cheek.

“Ouch!” he exclaimed. “I think I was stung by a bee!”

She giggled again and poked him on the other cheek. Then she kissed each cheek better and rubbed noses with him. When he poked her in the tummy, she shrieked with laughter, and he laughed along, feeling lighter than he had for weeks.

The door creaked open again and Barnaby poked his head in. “Betty Barnaby,” he said sternly. “What were you told about waking Uncle Ben up?”

“She didn’t,” Ben said, jumping to her defence. “Paddy did. And it’s time I was up anyway.”

Barnaby studied him as if he were examining a crime scene for clues. “You look a little less like death warmed over,” he said grudgingly. “How do you want your eggs?”

“Whatever’s easiest.” It was bad enough he’d showed up on their doorstep uninvited two days before Christmas. “Actually, just some toast would be fine. I should probably head back to Brighton.”

Barnaby frowned at him. “I thought we went over this last night. Unless you have someplace else you need to be, we want you to stay for Christmas.” He smiled conspiratorially at his daughter. “Do you think Uncle Ben should go back to Brighton, Betty?”

Betty shook her head emphatically, pigtails flying. “No. Santa brought you for Christmas because I was good. You can’t leave.” She pushed him onto his back and kneeled on his stomach, hands pressing his shoulders down. Ben thought his team could take some lessons from her on take-down methods. When Paddy curled up on his legs, he was well and truly trapped.

“Extricate yourself from that,” Barnaby said unsympathetically and closed the door behind him.

“I surrender,” Ben exclaimed. “Maybe I can stay until Christmas Day and watch you open your presents.”

Betty shook her head again. “Mummy said Boxing Day. That’s after Christmas.”

“Boxing Day,” Ben agreed. He worked his hands free and tickled Betty until she shrieked with laughter again. But a wriggling child wasn’t doing his morning bladder any good, especially considering the amount of beer he and Barnaby had consumed. “Let me up, Betty Bee, I have to go pee.”

He dislodged Paddy with a sweep of his legs and swung out of bed. Betty trailed after him, as he walked to the door, her hand slipping into his. He hugged her against his leg and kissed the top of her head.

“Why do you have to live in Brighton?” she asked. “Why can’t you live here?”

Here could mean anything from the furthest reaches of Midsomer county to the spare room. “Because that’s where my job is.”

“Oh, well. You could work here. You’re a ‘Spector like Daddy.”

“Not quite,” Ben said. He would never be an inspector like John Barnaby, he knew, even if he reached the next rank. “Your Daddy doesn’t need another inspector

“I’ll tell him he does,” Betty said stoutly.

He laughed, imagining Barnaby’s reaction to getting staffing advice from a preschooler. Though he wouldn’t object if a spot did open up in Causton CID. He’d made a life for himself in Brighton, but Midsomer would always be home.

“Maybe someday,” he said, slipping into the bathroom and making sure the door was locked behind him. The last time he’d come to visit, Betty had followed him right into the bathroom, expecting to continue the game they’d been playing.

Sarah was corralling Betty when he came out again, looking, he hoped, like a respectable member of society, and not like a petty drug dealer trying to join the big time. It had been a little dismaying how easily he had fitted in.

“Morning, Ben. I hope you’re hungry,” she said, kissing his cheek. “John’s doing a full English. Though I don’t know where the beans came from.”

That’s me told, Ben thought, and surrendered. “I really appreciate you taking me in like this.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re not a stray, you’re family.”

Ben thought he’d lost the last of his close family in the spring, but he realized he needed to stretch his definition. God knows, he couldn’t love Betty more if she were his own flesh and blood. And while he still struggled not to call Barnaby “sir”, there was a bond that came from facing death together that went deeper than blood or first names.

As for Sarah, she had welcomed him into her world from the very beginning, even when Barnaby resisted fraternization, wanting him to be godfather to her daughter, standing by his side when his gran died.

“Oh Ben,” she said, reading him as always. “The first Christmas without your gran is bound to be the hardest. I’m just so glad you can be here with us.”

“So am I,” he said. He grimaced when his stomach rumbled. He would need to catch up on calories before he could make a stand.

“Go on,” Sarah said, grinning. “Let John feed you up. You’re far too thin.”

“And you’re far too young to be my mother.” He kissed her on the cheek, ruffled Betty’s hair, and hurried downstairs, where he could smell bacon frying and coffee brewing.

“It’ll be ready in a few minutes,” Barnaby said, “You were singularly unhelpful about the eggs, so I’ve gone with fried.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“You can do the dishes. I’ve used every pan in the kitchen, so don’t think you’re getting off lightly.”

Ben had no intention of getting off lightly, in fact hoped to commandeer the kitchen once he’d had a chance to do a little last-minute shopping. “I have some errands to run if I’m staying over. I’ll check in with Sarah, but is there anything you need?”

“If?”

Ben was never going to win a war of words with John Barnaby. When he was younger, he’d tried and just made a fool of himself. Now, he’d learned two lessons: to pick his battles and to use unconventional tactics. “Shall I take Betty with me so you’ll be sure I return?”

“I don’t think that’s how hostages work. Besides, Betty has a playdate this morning. I’ll take your phone instead.” Barnaby wasn’t smiling, though he rarely did when he made a joke.

“House and work keys,” Ben negotiated. He wanted to keep his phone close by in case Elissa managed to get away early. Though with a toddler and a workaholic husband in tow, he didn’t think she’d leave Brighton before noon.

“I’ll trade you house keys,” Barnaby countered. “Just in case we’re not back when you return. Wouldn’t want you to spend any more time sitting in your car.”

Ben knew he would never live that down. But he’d been so tired when he arrived that he’d been unable to take the final steps to the Barnaby doorstep. His subconscious had known what he’d needed, but his conscious mind had been slow to understand.

He’d been on the verge of driving away again when Barnaby came out, though he didn’t know where he would have gone. Returning to Brighton was out of the question, but not returning still felt like running away.

“We’ve been through this before, Ben,” Barnaby said gently. “You need to decompress after an undercover stint. This will always be a safe place for you.”

Ben felt tears prickle the corner of his eyes and he looked down. It had been a long time since he’d felt safe. Longer still since he’d felt at home. He thought he’d buried that with his gran as well. “Thanks,” he whispered, marshalling his emotions. It was time to stop feeling sorry for himself and start showing some holiday spirit.

Barnaby put a plate of food in front of him and rested his hand on his shoulder for an extra moment. “Eat up. You’ll need all your strength to deal with Betty after a play date.”

Sarah had been kidding about the beans, but the plate was still loaded with eggs, bacon, sausages, fried potatoes, and something Ben recognized from childhood visits to his father’s family. “Bakestones?” He could hear his accent slip west towards Cardiff. “You know how to make Welsh cakes?”

“I am capable of using the internet,” Barnaby said, pretending to busy himself by wiping down the stove.

“He asked Millie Edwards for her recipe,” Sarah tattled, grabbing a cup of coffee and joining Ben at the table.

“Since when have you started exchanging recipes with Millie Edwards?” Barnaby had integrated himself more into country life, but Ben knew it still fell mostly to Sarah to network and gossip with the locals.

“I don’t like it when you go undercover,” Barnaby replied petulantly. “It’s too dangerous, and quite frankly you’re too old for it.”

It sounded like an insulting non-sequitur, but Ben had known John Barnaby long enough to hear past the insults. And he never said things without purpose. “Did you think if you learned how to make Welsh cakes it would keep me safe?” he asked, tempering the question with a smile.

Barnaby didn’t smile back, but he pursed his lips the way he did when he was trying not to be amused. “Maybe I thought, if I bake it, he will come. And I was right.”

“That sounds suspiciously like sentiment and superstition,” Ben teased. “As for going undercover, you sent me on the training.”

Barnaby brought a plate to the table. “And you’re good at it. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“We worry about you, Ben,” Sarah added.

“Comes with the territory. And two months playing cricket turned out to be more dangerous than six weeks consorting with drug dealers.” At least for me, he thought, flinching at the memory of Debenham crying out in pain when the knife slipped under his tactical vest. It didn’t matter that it had only been a shallow cut in the fleshy part of his underarm; one of his people had been hurt because of him.

He forced himself to bite into one of the Welsh cakes, even though his mouth had gone dry. “Delicious,” he pronounced with complete sincerity. “Try one,” he said to Sarah, passing her one from his overloaded plate.

“I’ve been trying Welsh cakes for the past two weeks,” Sarah complained, but dunked a corner in her coffee. “This is one of his better efforts,” she admitted. “But not as good as those scones you made for the nursery school bake sale.”

“My gran’s recipe. Wait till you try her shortbread.” His Uncle Henry had inherited the bulk of his grandmother’s estate, but her recipe book had come to Ben. He didn’t have it with him, but he had pictures of a few of his favourites on his phone. “I need to do a quick trip into town. Anything I can pick up for you?”

He started making a mental shopping list. Wine and beer, of course, and a bottle of single malt. Baking ingredients and chocolates. Elissa was bringing the presents he’d given her to deliver, but he’d need to pick up stocking stuffers for Christmas morning.

“The only thing we want from you is you,” Sarah said firmly.

“And the shortbread,” Barnaby added. “But if you really want to contribute, you can be in charge of Boxing Day brunch. I’m done with cooking after Christmas dinner.”

Ben knew that was Barnaby’s way of making sure he stayed at least until Boxing Day, but he was happy to play along. “Deal,” he said, smiling as he thought of dishes to plan. He’d definitely need his car.

Betty ran into the kitchen, her stuffed bunny, now as ragged as Ben felt, in one hand. She was wearing her winter coat, but her feet were completely bare. “Are you coming to Angie’s, Unca Ben? We’re going to make a gingerbread castle, just like the one in _Frozen_.”

“I’m not quite ready for Christmas,” he told her, “so I have to run some secret errands, check in with Santa to see if he needs any help. But I promise I’ll be here when you get back.”

“We’re not leaving for another hour, Betty,” Sarah said, trying to hide a smile. “And where are your socks?”

“I don’t want to wear socks,” Betty proclaimed. “I want to wear my flip flops.”

“You’re not wearing flip flops. It’s the middle of winter,” Barnaby protested, and Ben was a little disturbed to realize it was the same tone of voice he’d used to order him inside the night before. He could relate to the suddenly stubborn expression on Betty’s face.

“I love my flip flops. They’re purple, like my dress.”

The dress was indeed purple, so Ben couldn’t fault her on the logic. But having been outside in just his shirtsleeves the night before, he had to agree that flip flops weren’t a practical choice.

“I love my dressing gown, but I’m not wearing it to go visiting.” Sarcasm directed at a four-year-old went over about as well as it did on a detective sergeant, judging by the way Betty’s lips pursed.

Ben rolled his eyes. Barnaby was a marvelous father, but even the best missed the mark sometimes. “I’m not wearing any socks either,” he said, wiggling his toes at her. “I bet I can put mine on quicker than you can.”

“No, you can’t!” Betty shouted and scampered towards the stairs.

Ben gave her a head start, taking a moment to grin at Barnaby. “Psychology,” he said, and chased after his goddaughter.


	3. Chapter 3

“Unca Ben is still here!” Betty exclaimed as they pulled into the driveway. A morning of playing, treats, and Christmas anticipation had turned her up to eleven, and while she had started to fade on the drive home, she’d perked right up as soon as she saw the black hatchback parked on the street.

“He promised he would be,” Sarah said, unbuckling her from the car seat.

John knew the promise was as good as a guarantee, but he’d still swapped house keys with Jones to make sure. The front door was unlocked and there were signs that Jones had been a busy elf everywhere: a fresh holly wreath on the front door; a sprig of mistletoe hung above the living room door; the smell of baking wafting from the kitchen, along with the strains of Christmas carols on the radio.

Betty dropped her jacket on the floor and started to run into the kitchen, but Sarah held her back. “Ssh,” she said. “Uncle Ben is singing.”

Sure enough, John could hear Jones’s rich tenor rise above the music, tentative at first, and then with enthusiasm and joy. Sarah put her arm around his shoulders, and together the three Barnabys crept to the door to watch their guest unobserved.

He had changed into a Kelly-green sweater and tan trousers, and had even found time to trim his hair and beard. John was glad to see the scruffy drug dealer had disappeared, though he had to admit Jones had carried the look well. He had always had an air of restrained danger about him that a good suit and manners couldn’t quite tame.

When Jones switched to countertenor for the descant, Sarah actually sighed, and John decided it was time to end the concert. “I hope that’s shortbread in the oven,” he called out, lifting Betty into his arms as he strode into the kitchen.

The tips of Jones’s ears turned red, giving him an even more festive appearance. “Dough’s in the fridge. I’m just finishing off some sugar cookies. I thought Betty could help me decorate them. Santa told me he’s particularly fond of sugar cookies.”

“Lucky Santa,” John commented, though he was particularly fond of sugar cookies as well. He took a peek in the fridge and noticed it had been well stocked. “You’ve had a productive morning.” He had taken a break from four-year-olds and _Frozen_ to do some last-minute shopping of his own, but all he’d managed were some stocking stuffers for Jones and a bottle of single malt that was likely redundant now.

“I like Christmas,” Jones replied, which was like saying the Queen liked corgis.

John remembered how the first decorations would appear on Jones’s desk on the morning of December 1; by Christmas Eve he’d have found a way to transform the entire office, whether John liked it or not. He realized now how much he missed it - neither Nelson nor Winter were the decorating type.

“Have you had lunch?” he asked. The thing John liked most about Christmas was the tacit understanding that all diets could be thrown out the window for at least 12 days.

“I wasn’t sure what your plans were, so I picked up some things at the deli that we could graze on any time. Should I put them out?”

“I’ll look after it,” Sarah said. “Betty can help me. Go sit down. John needs a drink and some adult male company.” She handed them a bottle of beer each and shooed them away.

John stretched out on the couch with a deep sigh. “I can’t imagine my life without Betty,” he said. “But I frequently imagine it without _Frozen_ ,”

“ _Reindeers are better than people. Sven, don’t you think that’s true?_ ”

John reached over and slapped his hand over Jones’s mouth. “Don’t you dare,” he hissed. “If she hears that you’ll be singing it all day.” Unfortunately, he knew that Jones would happily do anything Betty asked.

Jones laughed. “I’ll save it for bedtime. _Don’t let the frostbite bite._ ”

“I find it disturbing that you know the words.” Disturbing, but not surprising. Jones had always been incredibly thorough.

“If you wanted a half-assed godfather, you should have pushed harder for your unbearable relative,” Jones replied.

It was true that Jones hadn’t been his first choice for the role, but after shooting down Sarah’s first choice for godmother, he’d known anybody he suggested would be summarily dismissed. He’d also known that there was an extremely short list of his male friends and family that Sarah would approve of, and only one she’d really want. It had been much easier and more conducive to marital harmony to let her be the one to suggest Jones.

“Ah well, it seems cousin Terrence isn’t just unbearable, he’s dishonest. Got caught fiddling the books.”

“A dishonest Barnaby? I don’t believe it.” Jones was teasing, but not joking. Even when he was annoying, he was loyal. As always, Sarah had known best.

“My mother’s side,” John admitted. His own father was feckless enough for one family. Bitterly loved, but no patch on the man beside him, who learned silly songs just to make Betty happy and baked sugar cookies because he knew damn well they were John’s favourite.

“Anyway, I’m glad you’re here,” he told Jones, remembering and regretting his hesitation the night before. Winter and Nelson before him were frequent guests, but Jones was the first to be welcomed.

Jones didn’t reply immediately, staring down at his hands. “I didn’t know where else to go,” he said at last. “When I left Debenham with his parents, I just kept driving. Couldn’t bear the thought of going back to my flat. Just dust and stale air. Home to someone I don’t know anymore. But when I found myself here, I knew I’d come to the right place. Because you always know who I am.”

“You know who you are,” John replied. “It doesn’t matter what you call yourself, who you pretend to be, you’ll always be Ben Jones, the most fundamentally decent man I know.”

Jones shook his head. “Not now,” he said. “Maybe not ever.”

“Ben…” John didn’t know what to say. He knew it was part of the process, emerging from the darkness, working through the dislocation and doubts, but it still hurt to watch. He thought about the world Jones had been submerged in and was struck by a terrible possibility. “If you had to...if you need help, we can find someplace discreet. No one needs to know.”

Jones stared at him and then laughed. “I’m not strung out, if that’s what’s worrying you. Dealers who sample their own wares don’t get promoted to the front office.” He smirked. “I must have looked really bad last night.”

John relaxed a little. “It’s the beard,” he teased. “You look like a reprobate.” He would never get used to a scruffy Jones.

Jones opened his mouth to retort, but then his face cleared and he smiled widely and openly. “What service!” he exclaimed, and stood up quickly to take a bowl of pickles and olives from Betty’s trembling hands. “I knew you were a good helper elf.”

“I took the cookies out of the oven to cool, Ben,” Sarah said, following her daughter with plates of cold cuts, crackers and cheese. “Santa is going to need to go for a run after eating those,” she added, smirking at John.

“Santa works hard at Christmas,” he retorted. “I think he deserves a cookie or two.”

“Or ten or twelve,” Sarah muttered. “Where did you find this cheese, Ben? I’ve been looking for it for ages, but it’s always sold out.”

“A little luck, a little local knowledge,” he replied. “Crofts always brings in a special shipment on the Monday before Christmas, so I made that my first stop. The Stinking Bishop was already gone, but I got the last of the Renegade Monk and Cornish Yarg.”

“Jones knows what to put on a cracker,” John said, remembering the Midsomer Blue murders.

“I just like the names,” Jones replied. “Do you want to try some Yarg?” he asked Betty, rolling the r extra hard.

She giggled and climbed on his lap, accepting a bite from his cracker. “Yarg,” she echoed, sounding like a pirate on helium.

John had the feeling it was going to be a long Christmas. “I was thinking salmon for dinner tonight,” he said. “A nod to the feast of the seven fishes, if that’s not too popish for you, Jones.”

Jones rolled his eyes. “Your father’s a hoot, Betty. Like an owl.” They both made hooting noises and giggled, and John wondered whether Betty had a godparent or a sibling.

He almost didn’t hear his mobile ping, but when he glanced at the text that came in, he smiled, and sent a quick message back. “All this talk of cheese has given me a yen for some of those mini quiches you picked up at Sainsbury’s,” he said to Sarah, who smiled knowingly.

He rummaged through the freezer, putting a selection of hors d’oeuvres onto a baking sheet. The oven was still warm from the cookies, so it only took a few minutes before he could pop them in. While he was waiting, he put the salmon in the fridge to defrost and popped a bottle of cava in the freezer to chill.

Satisfied that they were ready for company, he watched Sarah and Jones talking on the sofa, Betty snuggled between them. Jones threw back his head, laughing at something Sarah said, and John felt some of his worry ease. They would still need to talk, preferably after he’d poured a couple of scotches into Jones, but Betty and Sarah were already restoring him.

After checking to make sure he was unobserved, John snuck a sugar cookie off the tray. It was still warm from the oven and even without frosting, it was delicious. He was just brushing away the incriminating crumbs when the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” he called out. “If it’s carollers, I’ll send Jones out to bolster their numbers.”

“Can I go singing with Unca Ben?” Betty asked, and John remembered why he didn’t do jokes.

“If your mum says it’s all right, we can go carolling before dinner,” Jones replied, displaying a keen insight into the parental authority dynamics of the household.

John just sighed and went to the door. At least he was on dinner duty, so he wouldn’t be roped into wandering about the neighbourhood disturbing people. Sarah, he knew, would happily join in, and he had visions of his sugar cookies disappearing as gifts to people he spoke with as little as possible. Jones would call him a grinch, but John had been happy with just his wife, his work, and his dog. Now that he had Betty - and a little more grudgingly his team, past and present - his life was more than full.

But he was willing to admit outsiders now and then, especially ones that drove up from Brighton and were responsible for the well-being of one of those he’d admitted into his inner circle.

DS Elissa Warnock - then DC Elissa Johnson - had been a newly promoted detective constable when he knew her, but time barely seemed to have touched her. She had a husband and a child now, flanking her in the doorway, but she was still slim, dark haired and smooth skinned. It was only her eyes that were older - the price of eight years in CID.

But she smiled broadly when she saw John. “Merry Christmas, sir.” Although she was born in Southampton, the lilt of her parent’s Caribbean homeland tinted her voice, much like the Welsh valleys crept into Jones’s accent, especially when he was tired or stressed.

“Merry Christmas, sergeant. Welcome to Causton. I hope the traffic wasn’t too bad?”

“We slowed to a crawl when we got to the M25, but it wasn’t too bad, considering it’s Christmas Eve.” The obligatory complaints about motorways dispensed with, Elissa turned to introductions. “This is my husband, Ed. Ed, this is DCI John Barnaby”

John shook his hand. Ed Warnock was a foot taller than his wife and probably eight stone heavier, but they fit together in a way that had nothing to do with size or shape.

“Pleased to meet you,” Ed said. “Elissa says you used to be Ben’s guvnor.”

John winced at the slang, but kept a smile on his face. “For my sins. And who is this?” he asked, looking down at the little boy by Elissa’s side.

“This is Ned. He’s a little shy today.” Indeed, Ned had slipped behind his mother, only a glimpse of curly dark hair visible.

“I’m a little shy too,” John said gently. “But my daughter Betty will be very happy to meet you. I think she’s about your age.” He smiled at Elissa. “And there’s someone else here who will be happy to see you.”

He gestured for them to follow him into the living room. “Is there room at the inn for some weary travellers?” he asked.

Jones looked up, his eyes widening when he saw the Warnocks. He stood up and wove around the coffee table to greet them. “I thought you were going to text me when you got close, so you didn’t have to go out of your way.”

Elissa gave him a look that had likely derailed other foolish suggestions in the past. “The DCI invited us to stop by. And he outranks you.”

“Just what were you hoping to avoid?” John asked, struggling to keep the corners of his mouth from twitching upwards. “The stories I could tell or the ones she can?” Embarrassing Jones had long been one of his favourite parlour games; any new fodder would be the only Christmas present he needed this year.

The look Jones gave him meant his Christmas wish was already coming true; it managed to combine betrayal, annoyance, and pleading in a furrowed brow and narrowed eyes. But it passed quickly and the smile he gave Elissa as he reached for her hand was warm and welcoming.

“Happy holidays, Inspector Jones,” she said, giving him a mocking handshake.

“Happy holidays, Sergeant Warnock,” Jones replied with exaggerated formality. “And you’re off-duty, Lis.”

“Have you called him John yet?” she retorted,

“He hasn’t called me sir,” John replied. “Baby steps.”

“And he only calls me Ben when he’s worried,” Jones countered.

“You must be getting used to the sound of it then,” Elissa said, giving Jones a careful once-over. “You look a little less like something patrol dragged in off the prom,” she teased, but she turned his left hand over and shook her head at the bruises starting to come up across the knuckles.

“Well, you are as lovely as always,” Jones replied. He leaned in to give her a chaste kiss on the cheek and then shook her husband’s hand. “You’re a lucky man, Ed.” He crouched down until he was eye-level with the little boy peeking out from behind his mother’s legs. “Hiya, Ned. Do you remember me?”

Ned nodded. “Mummy’s boss,” he whispered.

Jones grinned. “That’s what she lets me think.” He glanced back to look for Betty. “I was wondering if you could do a job for me too. There are some sugar cookies that need to be decorated and my helper elf Betty could use a hand. Do you think you could help?”

Ned nodded, his eyes flicking to the side as Betty came over, bravado taking her as far as Jones’s side.

“Unca Ben makes really good sugar cookies,” she said solemnly. “Santa gave him the recipe.”

“Unca Ben’s been busy this morning,” John smirked.

Sarah had stayed back, but now she stepped forward, glancing at Jones to make the introductions.

“Sarah, this is my sergeant Elissa Warnock, her husband Ed, and her son Ned.”

“I think we met at John’s leaving party,” Sarah said to Elissa. “And I feel like I know you from Ben.”

“Same. He talks about you and the DCI all the time.”

“Please call me John,” John said, though he knew it was a lost cause. “Can I get you the promised festive cheer? I have some cava chilling.”

“That would be lovely,” Elissa exclaimed.

“I’ll get it,” Jones said. “I need to put the kids to work. Come on elves,” he said, leading them into the kitchen. “Santa needs his sugar cookies.”

John shook his head. “We left for a few hours and he took over the house.”

“Oh well,” Elissa said. “He’s had a frustrating holiday season. I don’t expect drug cartels go much in the way of gift exchanges and carolling. Fortunately, the universe loves him and things wrapped up in time for the big event.”

“Have a seat,” John said. “Father Christmas will bring the drinks in.”

Ed reached behind him and hefted up a bag. “Is there someplace I could put this out of sight of young eyes?”

John took the bag from him, which was filled with wrapped presents. “Is this the secret delivery? How on earth did he manage this?”

Elissa laughed. “He went on a cyber shopping spree. Packages arrived in dribs and drabs at our house, fully wrapped and addressed.” She looked fondly through to the kitchen, where Jones was showing the children how to decorate the cookies. “Ned got his own stash. Thank god Debs and Mac don’t have kids or our postman would have gone on strike.”

John made sure Betty wasn’t looking and then ducked into the den to bury the bag in the back of a closet. It wouldn’t stand up to a thorough search, but Betty would be too wrapped up in Christmas Eve festivities to look.

Elissa was putting a stack of envelopes on the side table when he came back into the living room. “I stopped by his place to get his mail. In all the craziness yesterday, I knew he hadn’t had a chance to go home.” She looked into the kitchen, a soft smile on her face. “Though he made sure we were taken care of. Got us all rostered off for the holidays, a full week. Even booked a flight for Mac to Aberdeen when it looked like he wouldn’t have time to drive up.”

“I guess I’m not the only soft touch here,” John joked. But Jones, he knew, was only truly happy when he was helping someone else, even if he grumbled to try and hide it.

“Because you gave Winter two days off?” Jones said, coming into the living room with the bottle of cava and five glasses. “He had me working Christmas Day one year.”

“And it’s a good thing I did,” John retorted. “Or who would have found the Hepford girls before they froze to death?”

“Uniform would have got there in time.”

“Uniform hadn’t talked to Katie Hepford and remembered where her favourite place on the estate was,” John countered. It had been a Christmas miracle of sorts - Jones emerging from the swirling snow carrying one girl, the other clinging to his back.

Jones had been near frozen himself. He’d bundled the younger Hepford girl, Anna, in his suit jacket, and Katie was swimming in his overcoat, leaving him only in his shirtsleeves. He’d been dazed when constables took the children from him, shaking so hard he nearly fell over, until John wrapped his own overcoat around him and led him into the manor house.

Jones had spent Christmas with them, swaddled in blankets on the sofa, Sykes warming his feet, not even tempted away by the smells and sounds of Christmas dinner cooking. Sarah had doted outrageously on him, pouring mug after mug of hot apple cider into Jones, until he was practically swimming in his seat.

“I just got lucky,” Jones mumbled, uncomfortable as usual with the praise.

“I love it when he gets embarrassed,” Sarah told Elissa. “He goes all flushed and stammering. It’s adorable.”

“Well, speaking of embarrassed,” Elissa replied, catching John’s eye and giving him a cheeky wink. “Last winter we chased a suspect through the leisure centre and into a change room full of half-dressed women. I don’t know who was more mortified, the women, the suspect, or the boss.”

“Definitely me,” Jones admitted. The oven timer dinged and he stood up quickly. “I’ll get that. I don’t need to be here for your embarrassing stories.”

“But it’s so much more satisfying when you are,” John replied.

“Do you want the shortbread?”

John was fairly certain he wouldn’t disappoint Sarah, no matter how much he was provoked, and if Jones got really shirty, he had no problem enlisting Betty in the cause of delicious Christmas treats. But the blush had receded, and Jones seemed more amused than embarrassed.

“Ben told me that story last time he was up,” Sarah confirmed. “Didn’t it end with him tackling the suspect into the deep end of the pool?”

“Lis had to fish them both out with a pole,” Ed added.

“The suspect couldn’t swim,” Elissa explained. “And the Inspector was wearing a heavy coat. It was all he could do to keep them both afloat.”

John pretended that the little lurch in his stomach was just hunger pangs. “It’s a good thing he got so much practise diving after miscreants in the Midsomer lakes and ponds. I’m surprised he hasn’t gone off the pier yet.”

Elissa laughed, but something in the tone pinged John’s radar. “Don’t worry, I send the lads to follow up leads on the pier.”

John wasn’t reassured. She either knew Jones far too well, or he’d already done something stupid. “Have you been tombstoning Palace Pier?” he demanded, when Jones returned, laden with appetizers.

Jones glanced at Elissa, who shook her head slightly. It only confirmed John’s suspicions. “For god’s sake, Ben, you’re not a dumb kid anymore.”

Jones put the platter of appetizers down and gave Elissa a nod. “I told you he only calls me Ben when he’s worried. I was hardly thrill seeking,” he told John. “I jumped in after a kid trying to escape an assault charge via the English Channel. He wasn’t going to last long enough for the lifeboat.”

“Debs could have done it,” Elissa pointed out. “He’s twenty years younger than you and he swam at uni.”

This time the look Jones gave her was one that had cowed many a suspect in the interview room, so John jumped in with a distraction. “So much for letting the twenty-something constables do the dirty work,” he said.

Jones allowed himself to be diverted. “Consider it a New Year’s resolution.” He smirked. “Is that why you pushed Debs on me? Because he can run fast and swim? And here I thought you just wanted more brains on the team.”

Elissa snorted. “Book smart, street dumb. I’m only telling you this because it’s Christmas and you’ve had a hard month. He came to me. Begged me to put in a good word for him. Ben is the cool sixth former all the first years have a boycrush on,” she told Sarah.

“Who can blame them,” Sarah replied, nudging Jones with her knee.

But Jones didn’t smile. “Bet he regrets that now.” He picked up his glass of cava and drained it.

“I thought you were going to sort him out,” Elissa said to John.

“There isn’t enough cava in Causton to sort this one out,” John replied, though he thought he’d at least made a start.

Jones got up and retreated to the fireplace. “He could have been killed because of me.”

“Debs had body armour on,” Elissa retorted. “You threw yourself at a man with a knife without any protection.”

John felt Sarah grip his leg, and he reached down to pat her hand. He wished he were surprised, but he remembered a dark Beltane night and Jones trying to get free to charge a man with a shotgun.

“What if it had been you, Lis? What would I have told Ed? How could I have faced Ned?”

Elissa got up and joined him at the fireplace. Jones wasn’t as tall as Ed Warnock, but he still had nearly nine inches on Elissa. And yet she faced him down with ease. “And what would I have told John and Sarah? That you were in the hospital or worse because you couldn’t stay out of sight during an armed raid.”

“I was doing my job. I didn’t have a choice.”

“But Debs did, and he chose to go on the raid, because even he knew you’d be in the thick of it. I know you’re careful,” she said, as if sensing Sarah’s growing distress. “But I also know you can’t stand by when others are in danger, and we both know firearms units don’t always distinguish between drug lords and relatively innocent bystanders.”

“Or undercover detective inspectors,” John added, remembering what Keith Hicks had said, “who don’t know enough to duck out the back when the shooting starts.”

“There were kids there - low-level runners and wannabes who needed someone to look out for them.”

“Just like we needed to look out for you,” Elissa said.

Jones flushed. “You always look out for me, Lis. But Debs is a just green kid, desperate to prove himself. I should have been looking out for him.”

Elissa pulled him into a quick hug. “You did. You made sure all he’s got is a scar and a good story. But you’re going to have to learn to trust him, boss, or he’ll never grow up.”

Jones nodded reluctantly and then pointed at Ed. “Remember this conversation when Ned is a teenager.” He sighed, letting his shoulders relax. “You have to give me some credit. At least I had enough sense to find a sergeant smarter than me.” He shook his head at John. “Don’t say it.”

“Only because it’s Christmas Eve,” John conceded. “And because I really want that shortbread.”

“Is that the shortbread Mac says is almost as good as his nana’s?” Elissa asked.

“I’ll have him on CCTV duty for that heresy,” Jones threatened. “Unless he brings some of his nana’s shortbread back from Aberdeen for us.”

“I think that’s a given.” She tugged at Jones’s arm. “Come on. Everyone’s safe and with their families. If I’m going to spend Christmas with my in-laws, I want some embarrassing stories to sustain me.”

John wished he had known Elissa Warnock better back in Brighton. Clearly, she was a kindred spirit. “Did Jones ever tell you about the time he dressed up as a nun to catch a killer?” he asked

Jones groaned, but allowed himself to be dragged back to the sofa, settling next to Sarah, who pulled him close and rested her head on his shoulder. It was a tight squeeze with three adults, but John didn’t mind.


	4. Chapter 4

After dinner, after bath time, after Ben had read three stories to Betty, and promised to wake her up if he saw Santa arrive, the adults settled in the living room to catch their breath.

It had been a fabulous meal. Poached salmon in dill sauce with fingerling potatoes and grilled asparagus. Ben had been living on pot noodles and takeout for the past six weeks, so any home-cooked meal was a luxury, but John had definitely upped his culinary game since the stir frys and barbecues of his day. He’d only made a token protest when Sarah insisted that he have seconds. And the only thing that stopped him going back for thirds was the knowledge that the next day would be a feast.

Sarah had told him that since it was originally only going to be the three of them, she'd thought they could do with a nice ham and a couple of sides, but John had, in her words, “freaked out” and insisted on the full traditional turkey dinner.

Ben would have been more than happy with the ham. Before he’d gone undercover, he’d intended to be on call over the holidays so his team could have the time off. With his gran gone, Kate away, and his team scattered to their families, there didn’t seem much reason to celebrate. A turkey pot pie and some eggnog had been the extent of his Christmas dinner plans.

He’d known that he would have been welcome at the Barnabys if he’d asked, had suspected an invitation would have been extended at Betty’s concert, but he’d been too proud to ask and then unable to attend the concert anyway. And yet here he was in this warm house, enveloped by the Christmas spirit. He might not have intended to end up here when he left Brighton, but he’d ended up where he’d needed to be.

“Did Elissa bring the presents?” he asked, realizing he’d forgotten to check with Lis before she’d left.

John nodded. “I stashed them in the den closet.”

Ben found the bag tucked behind a pile of boxes that he suspected John had saved from one of Sarah’s failed purges. “Ho, ho, ho,” he said, slinging it over his shoulder and heading for the Christmas tree.

Sarah shook her head when she saw the size of the bag, “You’re spoiling her, Ben,” she said, trying to sound disapproving, though her smile was indulgent.

“It’s my job,” he replied, though not all the presents in the bag were for Betty. And not all the presents were from him either, he realized, as he started spreading packages under the tree. He recognized Elissa’s neat handwriting, Debs’ messy scrawl, and Mac’s tiny printing. Mac could get more information on a single page than Ben could in an entire notebook. He even found one to himself and the Barnabys from DCS Hicks. He hoped that meant he was forgiven for his flight from Brighton.

He rocked back on his heels to survey his handiwork. There was nothing better than a Christmas tree overflowing with presents. John joined him and gave him a hand up. Ben tried to ignore how his knees cracked alarmingly. He would never admit it to John, but more often than not these days, he did send his constables to chase down suspects. And the past couple of months hadn’t left him much time for workouts other than a quick run now and then.

John stooped to grab a cookie from the plate Betty had carefully prepared for Santa by the fireplace, but Sarah rapped his knuckles. “No, you don’t,” she said. “Santa doesn’t get his goodies until he’s delivered the presents.”

Ben grinned and grabbed a cookie himself. “Mmm,” he said. “Only about 50% too much icing.” Though Betty and Ned had been far more restrained than he’d expected. He suspected more icing had gone into their mouths than on the cookies.

John groaned. “Why did I think it was a good idea to leave the presents at the station?” He headed for the hallway to grab his keys and jacket. “Come on, Jones,” he called back. “Give me a hand. Sarah can put up the stockings while we’re gone.”

Ben followed without thinking. Even after five years he reacted instinctively to a Barnaby order. “If you need my help, I’m not the only one spoiling her,” he commented. “Or did you finally get Sarah that rood screen I suggested?”

“I don’t miss your jokes,” John replied.

Ben grinned back at Sarah. “Does that mean you miss other things about me?”

“Nothing at all.”

But Ben had years of experience spotting lies, and he knew all of John’s tells. “Me neither,” he replied, knowing he might have baffled Barnaby at times, but he had never fooled him.

Walking into Causton police headquarters was like returning to a childhood home: familiar but strange. It was nothing like the John Street station in Brighton, which had just been tarted up with a renovation and was clean and shining, as long as you didn’t stray too far into the back offices. 

John gestured for Ben to sit in his own chair, and Ben frowned, wondering if he was protecting Winter’s territory in his absence or if there was a deeper meaning. Not this time, it turned out, as John ducked under Winter’s desk to retrieve a box of presents that was significantly larger than Ben’s own offering.

Ben smiled. Of course, John had made Winter sit with his legs tucked under his chair and his knees banged up against the box for god knows how long. He almost pitied the younger - and taller - man, but Winter had been with Barnaby long enough to have learned how to stand up for himself or, alternately, to have found another place to lock the presents up.

Though he was really in no position to judge. Here he was on Christmas Eve, once again doing John Barnaby’s bidding. He raised an eyebrow, though, when John retrieved a bottle of whisky and two tumblers from a file box marked Lost and Found, then raised the other when John gave him what his Uncle Henry would have called a shitty ass pour.

He downed it in one, just to see John’s reaction, and was rewarded with one of John’s funny little chuckles. “You’re going to have to try harder than that if you want to weaken my defenses,” he warned.

“Who said I’m trying to weaken your defenses?” John replied, though he poured another, more substantial shot. “Maybe I thought it would be nice to have a quick drink here for old time’s sake.”

Ben smiled. “ _We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For days of auld lang syne_ ,” he sang.

“Sarah misses that,” John said, circling back to the earlier conversation. “You singing. She says she always knows you’re all right when you sing. Are you?”

Ben feigned confusion. It usually bought him more time or information to work out the Barnaby thought process, though it wasn't always feigned. He knew what John was asking; he just didn’t know the answer.

“I’m fine,” he said finally, when John just sat silently staring. He sighed. “Fucked-up, insecure…”

“Neurotic and emotional,” John finished.

This time it was Ben’s turn to stare. “I never took you for an Aerosmith fan,” he said with a smile.

“I thought it was from _The Italian Job_.”

“That too.” He hadn’t thought John had seen any movies made after 1970 either. Though it was possible John had thought he was going to see the original film from the ‘60s.

“You’re always ‘fine’,” John said, smirking a little as he emphasized the word. “I want to know if all is right with you.”

Ben still didn’t have an answer, or at least one that John would like. “I’m as all right as I can be,” he admitted. “It helps being here. Being out of it.” Being safe, he thought, and loved, but he couldn’t say that out loud.

John leaned forward. “Ben, you know that anything you had to do was for the case.”

Ben raised both eyebrows at the use of his first name. “I know. Being on the inside meant that I could disrupt the system. And whatever I did was worth getting that shipment off the streets.”

“What’s bothering you, then?”

Ben rested his elbows on the desk and his head in his hands. He thought about downing the whisky again for some liquid courage, but he’d always been wary of alcohol as a crutch, “The boy who died. The last time I saw him, I was too busy to buy him a decent meal, so I gave him twenty quid. That could have been the money he used to buy the laced meth.”

“Or it could have been the money that got him a place to sleep. You can’t control somebody’s choices.”

No, we just clean up the fallout from those choices, Ben thought. But some choices weren’t choices at all. Some lives were lost before they were even lived. “Every time I pay a street kid for information, I know there’s a good chance it’s going in their veins or up their nose. I’m not helping them, I’m just using them, and then discarding them when they’re not any use any more. I’m not breaking the cycle, I’m perpetuating it.”

John didn’t say anything immediately, which meant he wasn’t going to soothe him with easy answers. “You said you met him at an outreach centre.”

“I’ve been volunteering once a week since April.” If John knew the significance of the date, the grey days after his gran’s death, he didn’t say anything.

“The whole team has,” he added to deflect that line of thought. “Chief Constable has a bee in his bonnet about community service.” In Midsomer, that meant judging cakes at village fetes or showing a police presence at the local magistrate’s pet project. Admittedly that occasionally meant stumbling over a dead body, but Brighton offered ways to be of service that were more than smiling and handing out ribbons. 

“Lis helps with the health and wellness program for marginalized women, Debs teaches English to refugees, Mac is almost as good a cook as you, so he helps in the kitchen.”

“Flattery will get you leftovers when we get home, but it won’t get you out of this conversation,” John said. “What do you do?”

“I help with the apprenticeship program. Apparently, I’m very good at browbeating businesses into taking on street kids.”

John grunted in agreement. “That’s how you knew the boy who died?”

“Maurice. Mo.” Dirty blond hair and grey eyes as stormy and ageless as the sea. “Never had a chance. Bounced around the system when he was a child, got hooked on drugs in care. But he was trying to turn it around, and he was smart enough to get there.”

“It doesn’t sound to me like you discarded him. Sounds like you believed in him.”

“Fat lot of good that did him.” Dead at eighteen. Just another statistic in the year-end reports. Overdose, Brighton & Hove. One of far too many.

“Maybe not,” John said. “Or maybe it was everything. You made his death mean something. And maybe because of what you did, another boy will still have the chance to turn his life around. And you’ll be there to help him.” He raised his glass. “Drink up. Sarah will be wondering if we’ve gone chasing after criminals.”

More likely she would be thinking – quite accurately – that they were dipping into John’s office bottle. Ben clinked his glass against John’s. “To the lost boys and girls.”

“And the ones who find them.”

Ben remembered that Christmas Day eight years ago and two little girls lost in a snowstorm. He’d gone out with the search party, because he couldn’t bear to stand around waiting while children were missing. He’d found them in the old hermitage, but when the storm kicked into a near white-out, he’d struggled to stay on the snow-swept path. It was only when he’d heard John shouting that he’d found his bearings and the way back to safety.

He didn’t remember much of the last few minutes trudging through the snow, just the biting cold and the sound of John’s voice. Then the girls were taken from him, a jacket was draped over his shoulders, and John’s arm circled his waist, pulling him in close, as he led him into the warm house.

“Thank you,” he said. He took a last sip of scotch, feeling the burn all the way through his core.

John put the glasses and bottle back in the filing box. “What for?”

“For bringing me in from the cold.”

John didn’t say anything, just gave him a long look that warmed Ben in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol. “Come on. We have cookies waiting.”

They drove back in silence. It wasn’t unusual or uncomfortable. In the early days of their partnership, the silence had unnerved Ben; he'd taken it as a sign of Barnaby’s disapproval. He had eventually realized that John neither disapproved nor needed empty chatter just to fill the void. He said what was important when it was important.

After a few minutes, John switched on the radio and found a station playing classical Christmas music. Ben leaned back in the passenger seat and closed his eyes, letting the music sweep over him. He recognized the piece - Franz Biebl’s _Ave Maria_ \- from his brief stint in Joyce Barnaby’s choir.

He hummed along to the tenor part. He wasn’t religious - he barely remembered the Latin words, much less their translation - but the music filled him with an overwhelming sense of peace. He blinked back tears as the final amen rose and soared in an ethereal play of voices. So be it, he thought and let the receding music wash away the stress and doubts of the past weeks.

When they got back to the house, he hauled the box of presents to the front door, but then stepped back. “I’ll just be a minute,” he told John. “I want to watch the night sky.”

John glanced up at dark clouds, but didn’t comment, though the worry line that scored the bridge of his nose deepened. Ben tossed him his car keys as a safeguard.

Intellectually he knew that Brighton had the same sky, the same constellations, the same transit of planets, but they were dimmed by the pier and city lights. When Betty was older, he would take her out to Dunstan and show her the heavens he’d mapped as a boy.

He couldn’t see the stars, but there was still a different feeling to the night. John liked to tease him about his country ways, but the air was different and the nights were crisper. He felt something light and feathery brush his cheeks, and he looked up to see a swirl of snowflakes float past the street lights. It was just a flurry now, but if the weather held, they might wake up to a white Christmas.

Ben turned his face up to the sky and let the snowflakes fall against his lashes. He took a deep, cleansing breath, and then came in from the cold.


End file.
